


amidst the rain

by freezerjerky



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-27
Updated: 2015-06-27
Packaged: 2018-04-06 12:41:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,286
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4222068
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/freezerjerky/pseuds/freezerjerky
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The stories her enemies will tell will be of a relentless woman, determined for glory. That is, if she achieves what she wants.</p><p>Written for week two of the Merlin Arts Fest on tumblr.</p>
            </blockquote>





	amidst the rain

**Author's Note:**

> Week two entry for [ The Merlin Arts Fest.](themerlinartsfest.tumblr.com) I used the following prompts: [image](http://martinjclemens.com/wp-content/uploads/2013/12/rain-wallpaper.jpg) and [color](http://img1.findthebest.com/sites/default/files/2307/media/images/Light_Pink_430051_i0.png).
> 
> Done in collaboration with [evolvingwildthing](evolvingwildthing.tumblr.com) and her lovely [art](http://evolvingwildthing.tumblr.com/post/122618962045/she-dreams-of-meadows-full-of-pink-flowers-that) and [spearmintstardust](spearmintstartdust.tumblr.com) and her lovely [mix.](http://spearmintstardust.tumblr.com/post/122653784978/the-merlin-arts-fest-2015-week-two-image)

The stories her enemies will tell will be of a relentless woman, determined for glory. That is, if she achieves what she wants. Who's to tell what the Lady Morgana can actually do with Emrys always mucking about with her plans, and her arrogant half-brother stepping in with his noble act and his love for his people. She could love her people too, if they could love her for what she is, damn them for being so difficult. The point is, she gets so sidetracked when she's alone she forgets the point, the point is, relentless is a persona and she can't be that fierce woman at all times. At other moments she's still soft, even if it's in her most private, gentle moments.

She's walking alone, through thick forests and empty plains. It's been a few days since she met with a warlord, a man who wanted things she wasn't willing to give from her. There's still pride to be had, even in her quest for power. After all, she seeks to be the most powerful woman in a vast kingdom. Even powerful women grow tired, though, and want to rest their feet. But she can't, she has to trudge along as the rain starts to fall, leaving her with no place to stay dry as she cuts through a field of grain. It's a drizzle only, but she remembers as a girl that a drizzle like this would keep her inside for ages. There's liberation in the fact that she can walk in the rain without a hood, with little protection, but there's also loneliness in the fact that she must do it alone. She doesn't have the time to dwell on the rain, though, and must trudge on as best as she can. After all, there's always work to be done. Those who believe in her have no idea just how much she does for them.

The rain picks up before she can find shelter and she tugs her hood over her head. Her hair may be matted and her makeup smudged, but she can't afford the luxury of sickness. Once, she'd been allowed to lie in bed for hours and days if she felt even a bit ill. Gwen would fuss over her and Uther, the horrid man, would send in gifts of fruit or pretty things. And the potions Gaius would send in would work their magic, though that was a different sort of magic altogether, that of careful science. At least the fools at Camelot knew to trust that. In those days they weren't fools but wise men.

Men are rarely wise, Morgana knows. Women are less so but at least they're not given positions of power so freely. The place she's headed is a cottage owned once by an arrogant man. She killed the man for his arrogance and doesn't have the time to regret it. Now all she cares for is that it's a bed for a night so that she can get back to her work in the morning. She's so tired, after all, despite herself and her better nature. No one reminds her that she needs to sleep. Her mind races until it shuts down, then she can rest. The dreams can't be stopped now. Right now her mind's near its collapse and she's easily caught off guard, catching sight of a soft, small spring blossom. It's a soft pink, sweet and feminine, a colour associated with first love and innocence.

She remembers Gwen wearing a dress of that colour. Gwen wore pretty things like that when she was her maid, hand embroidered shifts in pale colours that stood in lovely contrast against her warm skin. Morgana had always found her to be lovelier than even the noblewomen, but she supposed she was biased by the warmth of friendship. One morning Gwen came to her rooms wearing the pink dress, humming and holding a bouquet of flowers. Morgana had just awoken and taken the time to stare, to take in the light of morning.

“Are you awake m'lady?” Gwen asked her, curtsying. “I've set out some dresses you might want to wear today. It's warm.”

“Thank you Gwen,” she answered, sitting up. “I'm sure whatever you chose is absolutely lovely.”

Gwen smiled at that. “And I picked you some flowers. Well, Merlin helped. He was out picking herbs again this morning, I believe, and when I told him what I was doing he insisted.”  
Morgana glanced down, hiding a smile. She was very aware of how Gwen thought the boy felt about her, and also very aware that it was for the best that she didn't dwell on it. He was, after all, Arthur's servant. She stepped onto the cold floor.

The remembrance of cold feet brought her back to present and her own rain soaked boots. The rain had started to pour harder, flooding the field. She throws her hood back and stomps out the pink bloom with a grimace. There's no use in dwelling on people who hate her as much as she hates them. A vulnerable point means a spot where she can be hurt and she's been hurt enough for two lifetimes in just a few short years.

The cottage is not far now, maybe half a mile, just past the line of trees. She can feel it even if she can barely make out the outline amidst the rain and darkness. She's bogged down by the soaking, her heavy clothes clinging to her body like quicksand pulling her downwards. It's practical to dress like this, but some days she misses the silks, the way she felt as though she was wrapped in gossamer at feasts, or light as a feather as she ran down the halls while alone. It's important that she doesn't dwell on this or become dragged down, because Morgana still has much to do.

It's everyone else that makes this difficult, she thinks, because she wanted it easy. There were those few days when she was queen properly. She kept her servant, she kept the knights. She didn't have to sleep in a hovel. Those mornings, Gwen still woke her up the same way. She remembers that even then there were soft things, a plush bed, her white silks to wear, and pretty maids in blushing dresses. She suspects she wouldn't even know how to act with that sort of fragility always around her. Morgana belongs to the hard things, pouring rain, rooms with no candles, knives hidden in her boots to kill arrogant men.

When she arrives at the cottage she pushes the door in slowly, peering in. There's no guarantee against surprises, that someone else isn't living there, or there isn't some trap from Emrys. (She's grown increasingly suspicious of that of late.) Instead, she finds nothing but a single room and a lumpy bed. She's not enough of a martyr to keep from lighting a fire, it's just a flick of her eyes after all. Once everything's latched up tightly she strips out of her layers, removing everything but her shift. Everything else is left to dry by the fire as she eats a meal of bread and cheese, her meagre provisions. Once she's back in a safer place she can demand fruits or sweets, but for now she's content.

Warmed as best as her cold heart can manage, the lady Morgana climbs into the bed, underneath the threadbare blanket. She listens for some time to the rain hitting against the roof, some of it leaking onto the earthen cottage floor and pooling. She dreams of meadows full of pink flowers that night and she's not sure if they're better or worse than the nightmares.


End file.
